


Bun in the Oven

by AzulMountain



Series: Erotic Pastry Shop for the Supernatural [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Erotic Pastry Shop, Food Porn, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Druging, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pack Bonding, Werewolf Hunters, Work In Progress, non-graphic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzulMountain/pseuds/AzulMountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott learns about the supernatural in his friend's erotic pastry shop and that Stiles wasn't really sampling his merchandise.</p><p>Also why his college girlfriend doesn't qualify for the friend discount.</p><p>It's a two for one kind of deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bun in the Oven

Stiles has his hands full of pastry bag, piping delicate lines of white royal icing when the shop bell rings and the cold draft of December air sweeps into the bakery kitchen. The clomping sound of someone clearing their boots free of snow is generally appreciated, but it jars his concentration and the No. 1 tip leaks a little left of Stiles’ intended line. He mutters a curse and quickly dabs at the icing before it can dry. Yet another distraction to keep him from completing the decorating work for the holiday rush order.  Sighing in frustration, Stiles puts down the anatomically correct gingerbread man, before he can butcher the cookie’s other hairy gonad.

“Hello?” A male’s disembodied voice travels from the front show room and Stiles quickly calls to the other room that someone will be with him in a minute.

Knowing the bitchy werewolf will hear him, Stiles mumbles, “Erica, please help the customer,” as he repositions the pastry bag over the cookie. Balancing the bag in his hand, he gently coaxes out a thin line of icing and outlines a thick cock for the gingerbread man.

 

He has enough to deal with already and refuses to do Erica’s job on top of it. The quickly approaching pickup deadline has him flustered and the order’s patron is very particular about quality, so he hopes the man in the front will be alright in Erica’s hands. Most are not, but this one has to be. With efficient strokes, he loses himself in his work and forgets all about the interruption.

 

That is, until the nagging tickle on the back of his neck, draws the diligent worker from his craft. It’s the silence that unnerves him. No customer interaction with the bitchy blonde has ever been so quiet. Stiles gently places the full bag onto the workspace and takes a sip of his lemon tea, while he focuses inward on his Spark core for the tether of the shop’s ward line. His instincts are on edge, but the ward indicates this visitor is human.

 

Finding no supernatural clues to ease his Stilinski-spidey-sense, Stiles listens with his dull human ears for signs. He hears only an occasional clunk of boots as their owner peruses the bakery cases and displays. It quickly becomes apparent that the room lacks the tattoo of Erica’s distinct swagger in her heeled boots as she helps the customer/enraptures her target.

 

Her need to be a slut to anything with a heartbeat helps loosen wallets, when it works. Most of the time clients are too intimidated to dawn the door when they see her waiting at the counter. It’s no surprise when confronted about toning her lascivious nature down in his shop, Erica just turns it up. If there were a line for dress code in an erotic pastry shop, she has crossed it ten times over just to piss off Stiles. Derek has no control over her, even as the Hale-Aster pack’s top beta. He’ll just throw her into a wall, until she pouts for an hour. Because Alpha Laura Hale has essentially wiped her hands of the younger wolf, Alpha Tommy Aster has to deal with her. His scolding only lasts about a week and then she is right back to bitch and general headache.

 

Her clear absence from her duty has him calling for the errant worker, again. “What the hell am I paying you for, Erica?” Stiles chastises her under his breath, so as to not to make a scene in front of the customer.

 

No answer comes. Stiles would rub his throbbing temples, but they are sticky with frosting and getting up to wash them is too much work.

“I know you can hear me!”

No sassy blonde rounds the corner and Stiles growls with anger.

“Boyd?”

Nothing, but typical.

“Isaac?”

Hope carries in Stiles’ request. It is strenuous work for his blimp body these days to maneuver; he feels like there are two little pups nesting in his magic womb considering his drastic growth over the last two months, but Deaton insists there is just one. And if he gets one more comment from his customers and friends (i.e. Scott and his new girlfriend) about laying off the merchandise because people think his girth is from snacking pastries, he will punch someone. And probably Derek too, for his part in making him the butt end of everyone’s jokes.

 _Ha ha. Look at the fat man in a pastry shop_. Stiles sometimes wonders if his mentor and hippo sized incubus, Old Dyl, ever felt like this in his own shop Dyl’s Dough. Probably not; the man had thick skin and got tons of sex. Everyone was probably madly jealous that he got his cake and ate it too.

Including, Stiles. Though, he is jealous of anyone having sex because he is not allowed sex.

_None. Nada._

Unfortunately, it is everywhere around him in the form of gluten and sugar and a horny clingy mate named Derek Hale. He can’t help the growl laced with sexual frustration that escapes his lips. Deaton, their supernatural prenatal doctor, has been very clear about no vigorous activity for the last six weeks of pregnancy.

_The bastard._

If Stiles didn’t know that he would have to give birth through his anal passage and that it would be quite painful, even with the Deaton’s special tea, he’d have Derek fill him to the rim the minute the little pup was in the clear. He is that bad off. _Gods he needs a god fucking_.

Flushing red heat blossoms on his face and down the back of his neck from his randy thoughts. _Fucking hormones._ He swears he feels his body slick up from the arousing thought of Derek fucking his birthing raw passage. His cock twitches eagerly, begging for attention and his sticky right hand.

Stiles slams his mental barriers down, axing his arousal with miserable efficiency that can only be won from forced celibacy. He is a freaking monk here. The sting of shame and utter embarrassment from discovering he couldn’t even reach his dick, no matter his approach, are enough to control his urges and wait the few more days for his long waited relief.

And because Derek has been an utter dick about satisfying his needs and not Stiles’, Stiles won’t give Derek the pleasure of joined intimacy. Let his mate stew in the cesspool of utter frustration like he has for the last six weeks. Wayne the Wang (Stiles named his dick in honor of Bruce Wayne/Batman) will be free of the treacherous Pup Bump and they have a gay old time without Derek. Just like old times.

“Isaac!”

No answer comes from his desperate plea, but that is expected. Isaac is out on delivery and if he were in the shop he would be just as swamped as Stiles. And never complain, unlike Stiles. Isaac is the only treasure to come out of Derek’s nesting fiasco; where, in all his expecting-father douchiness, he annoyed or battered most of Dylan’s old work force to quit and filled the positions with inept pack members. Thank the gods for Isaac because Stiles wouldn’t be able to keep the place open with the substandard help.

As long as Stiles keeps on top of the decorating and customer orders, Derek handles the office, and Isaac takes care of the baking and delivery work with Boyd, things will be covered until Stiles closes the shop for maternity leave. Reorganization will be the new year’s project, in between infant feedings and diaper changes. There is no way Dough Knots will grow, let alone exist, as things stand with the pack as staff.

And Stiles knows who the first two that will get the ax: Boyd and Erica. Boyd is generally a good worker, but he is bored and disappears frequently with Erica. Erica is, well, a terrible person and not surprisingly, a bad employee. She is absolutely dismal at counter service. She picks fights with customers or worse, flirts. Dough Knots sells sugar porn, not escorts. If Stiles gets one more complaint, before they close in the next couple days, he’ll dismember the werewolf, pack mate or not. Laura and Tommy can suck his neglected balls.

Stiles breathes in and out, forcing himself to calm. Stress is bad for the baby and his health. He just needs to get through today and things will be good.

‘No Erica, no Boyd, no Isaac… Derek is out with Dad doing last minute nursery things, so that leaves-’

He hesitates to call the last worker available, pretty sure the state would have a problem with an underage worker in an erotic pastry shop. Not to mention Stiles feels protective of the high school freshman and doesn’t like the way some customers look at the kid behind the counter, but Stiles is desperate.

On temporary loan during winter break, the young werewolf is great with the dishes and making easy things like frosting or rolling fondant. The kid’s help is tremendously appreciated as Stiles tires too fast and finds it difficult to stand for any duration. He is a god send, along with Isaac, from the Aster pack back East. Most of the young generation like Erica and Boyd followed their alpha West to live in the new Hale pack house to get out of the stuffy parlor politics of their East Coast relatives.

“Liam?” There is a loud crash in the kitchen and the fifteen year old temp comes around the corner covered in flour.

“Um… sorry about that, I’ll just clean it up later. What do you need?” Liam shakes flour out of his hair, taking care not to meet Stiles’ eyes or look at the giant bulge of his stomach. The kid is still a bit shy around Stiles. The freakish event of male pregnancy kind of does that to people, even pack. Liam’s eyes instead focus on Stiles’ work, but that too, is just as bad.

The various X-rated decorated cookies in all sorts of vulgar positions have the youth blushing crimson. He is so embarrassed that the teen looks down and studies his flour covered hands. Stiles’ frustrated grimace at the mess the teen probably caused evaporates as he watches the teen desperately will away his natural reaction to the sexual environment of this workplace.

 _Ah, the hormones of youth_.

Sex is transparent here and the wonder of naked body and all its functions is new enough to the kid that there is no way Stiles’ morals would allow Liam up front in the thick of it. The safest place is in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess he just made even if it means standing.

With a mirthful expression, Stiles gestures to the teen to come closer. When Liam gets close enough he reaches up and ruffles the kids fluffy flour covered fringe and smiles, “Don’t worry about it, thank you for being here with me. Could you call Derek and tell him to get back for me? He has pups to discipline for skipping work, again.”

“Sure Stiles. Glad I am not Erica or Boyd today. Derek’s getting scary the closer you… well, you know, get to _that time_ -” Liam flushes pink unable to say anything pregnancy related, but he relaxes as Stiles smiles back with understanding. It took Stiles just as long to wrap his head around it and the kid has only known him for just over a week, so he’ll get there.

“Be glad you’re neither of those slackers any day. You are a great help to me.”

Stiles might be laying it on a bit thick, but he can’t help the joy of seeing the way the kid, only five years younger, lights up at the praise. It also helps Liam realize he is not so much a freak for carrying a child, but another human being or well, supernatural being. Isaac was the same way in the beginning and now they are close friends.

“Thanks, Liam. I’ll go pretend to be Erica and strut my fat ass in there; offer to take care of _all_ the customer’s needs or whatever she says to make people buy a lot of merchandise. Actually, I think she just threatens most. I better fire her before we get complaints about extortion.”

Liam laughs. It’s no secret that she will soon be out of a job. Everyone, including Erica, prefers it that way. Derek’s instincts will lessen as the pup’s get older and they can hire qualified happy workers again. Stiles dreams of that day. “Go into the bathroom and clean up first or you’ll track flour into the office. Make sure Derek knows to get here pronto, please.” Liam nods and heads out.

Stiles chuckles at the flour shoe prints left in Liam’s wake and remembers the many messes of his own creation back when he first started to work here the summer before. He probably was just as bad, if not worse, as Liam. Definitely worse, he recalls. The nightmare mess he and Derek cleaned up after their first sex-capade in the kitchen, made Dylan furious, Stiles embarrassed, and Derek proud.

The stressed squeak of the stool struggling under his heavy pregnant weight loudly echoes through the quiet shop. The bass accompany, Stiles’ pain filled groan as he shifts his aching back in the movement, joins in and creates disjointed harmony. The grating combination in the room’s poor acoustics captures Stiles’ irritated mood perfectly. The munchkin in his oven connects another solid kick to his bladder hobbling Stiles, before he can call out to the customer that he’s coming.

“Little bastard,” Stiles growls in frustration and pain.

“Excuse me?” The stranger’s voice returns from the other side of the counter.

Stiles grips the metal table to stand fully in uber slow motion, panting heavily, and waddles one hundred eighty degrees to face the probably offended customer. His apology for the mistake chokes out in a puff of air. The presence of this customer vibrates under his skin, but Stiles is not sure why. The striking man is older, but familiar and Stiles struggles to place him.

Piercing blue eyes rake over Stiles’ bloated form with dangerous calculation and it makes Stiles squirm from their intensity. A knowing smirk curls as the man finishes his perusal and dismisses Stiles as a non-threat with a huff. “Not to worry, boy. I know you were not greeting your customer so poorly.”

“Errr…Good. What may I get for you today? We have a special on naughty santas and icicle cocks. They make great party host gifts or stocking stuffers.”

Stiles directs the man’s attention to the sugar cookies in the case under him. Drunk Santa cookies in various states of dress fondle elf cookies or puke in presents depending on the cookie. Some feature beardless stubble and heavy weapons; hardly the typical variety of Christmas cookies. They are tasteless, but everyone gets a kick out of them.

The icicle cocks sit in a cardboard display on top of the case next to the register, wrapped in cellophane with rainbow ribbon bows. The clear sugar dildo lollipop seems plain compared to the gaudiness of the rest of the pastry-porn store. Stiles plucks one up to show the man their hidden magic. With a switch on the end of the stick, a LED lights the clear cock turning it a glowing rainbow of colors. 

“Cute.”

“They’ve been a hit.” Stiles waits patiently for the man’s order, wincing imperceptibly as the pup gives another kick to his poor abused organs.

“Do I smell a bun in the oven?”

Stiles freezes when he hears the man’s question. He has to remind himself he is in a bakery and there is nothing uncommon about his question. But the piercing blue eyes twinkle in knowing amusement and Stiles knows this arresting man is alluding to the euphemism, not baking. Unwelcome shivers wrack his body. He studies the older man and struggles to keep his composure. Whoever this man is, he is dangerous and best gone from Dough Knots.

Stiles breathing accelerates with his rising heartbeat as he calmly replies, “Nothing is baking at the moment, Sir, but this is a bakery and it always smells good in here.”

“Heavenly.” The man’s eyes hold Stiles for a moment, before dismissing him and traveling down over Stiles bulging midsection with a minute pause, and then lower to the holiday cookies on display. He points to a Santa brandishing a bloody longsword. “I’ll take him and two meringue nipples… Ah, the ones with the perky pink tops, please.” Stiles’ tongs slide away from the cocoa dusted/dark chocolate tipped nipple meringues and he collects the order in practiced motions. A small box rests on the counter and he asks if there is any else to his order.

“My daughter came in last week with her _boyfriend_.” The way he says the word, Stiles knows he is none too pleased with the guy. “She recommended the werewolf claws.”

Stiles gapes, forgetting his own menu at the word _werewolf_ because this man has him on edge; he begins babbling and stuttering out, “What? There’s no such thing as were-”

“You know, bear claws, but you call them ‘werewolf claws’ here? I was told this was your business.”

“Oh right, sorry, we don’t have them today. We alternate our options and those are only available on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Anything more I can add to your order, _to go_?”

The older man levels him with a cold stare at Stiles rudeness, but his smile twists into something evil when he reads the fear on Stiles’ face. He leans forward over the counter and watches as Stiles loses it.

Stiles flinches as the man approaches his space and just stares at him. He is trying to keep an unaffected façade, but the pup keeps rattling his body with crippling cramps. His usual solid defense is being brought down from the inside. The grasp over his Spark is shaky. When he tries to draw on it to push the man back, if he does anything more than be a creep, his magic falters. It is focused internally on the pup and whatever chaos his pup up to.

This guy is unnerving him beyond any supernatural creature that has ever visited his shop and he is powerless. The pack is scattered and Liam is not a fighter. Somehow, he knows this man planned his visit just for these circumstances.

Stiles edges close to the register for the handle of his metal bat, sitting ready if things do turn ugly. But if the slight bulge in the man’s coat is what he thinks is a concealed handgun, the bat will do him no good.

When the man speaks, Stiles nearly pisses his pants. “A cream horn will do.” The man chuckles at Stiles as he drops the tongs on the counter and has to jungle them to get a firm grip.

Stiles feels a pain laced tear stream over his flushed cheek. His son or daughter is having a boxing match with his spleen and his customer is getting off on his pain and fear. Sickened to see the handsome man running his tongue over his bottom lip when Stiles gasps in reaction to his pup’s acrobatics, he squeezes the tongs too hard and the cream pastry ruptures between them. With white cream dribbling down his stretched flannel shirt, Stiles quickly shoves the limp sweet in with the others and deftly folds the box closed.

The man throws a twenty on the counter and is on his way to the door before Stiles can tell him his order is free, if he never returns. “You let Hale know my family moved back, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Ah,” The throw of another spasm of pain holds his tongue.

The man’s eyes crinkle as he watches Stiles shudder over the counter in pain. “Oh, and Sparky, I think your oven timer is about to go off,” he adds helpfully.

Stiles’ horror from the man’s parting words go unnoticed by the older man as he walks out the door and into the snowy afternoon.

 

\-------

 

Liam must have clued into Stiles distress because the kid is gently lowering Stiles to floor from his crumpled heap over the counter only a few seconds later. But as caring as he is with Stiles, the teen is clueless as to what to do about Stiles’ labored breathing and distressed groans.

“Oh my God, is it the _thing_?”

Stiles interrupts Liam’s jittery confused clown dance by grabbing his ankle and jerking the werewolf to get his attention and stop panicking. “Not a _thing_. Call. Deaton. Puppy. Out. Now!” And Liam is rushing into the office to call.

Of course it’s Stiles’ luck that the shop bell rings announcing another customer. From his prone position Stiles can see a pair of weather inappropriate high heel pumps tapping impatiently against the wood floor demanding his immediate attention.

“Lydia,” Stiles groans from the floor.

The shoes click away and then reappear on his side of the counter. Stiles’ teary eyes focus on strawberry blonde leaning over him. Her red lips thin with derision. “I guess this means my cookies aren’t ready.”

Jackson, ever the eager piranha to gouge Stiles’ ego, takes this opportunity to announce his presence in the bakery by adding, “There goes your rush fee, Stilinski.”

And then Jackson’s smarmy face is popping over his counter display and laughing at Stiles prone form. “Oh man, you have let yourself go! What’s the matter loser, fall and couldn’t get up?”

Jackson laughs at his own joke, but his raucous laughter transforms into a sequence of clicks. To everyone’s disbelief his kanima nature is picking up on Stiles’ scent, a mixture of pregnancy and distress, and Jackson’s careful control slips. Stiles can feel the moment things crescendo into a downward spiral that will go down in infamy in Beacon Hill’s supernatural community as Jackson’s face sharpens into an inquisitive green reptile and he becomes the kanima. Stiles’ magical womb takes this moment to burst. Projectile discharge splatters all over his high school love’s thousand dollar shoes and chaos ensues.

Lydia’s screams of outrage cause Liam to run out of the office in beta form, ready to defend his pack mate from the irate strawberry blonde goddess, thus forcing the kanima into defensive mode. His reptilian tail slices the back of Liam’s neck before the teen can get close. Liam crumples in a pile of tranquilized limbs against a glass display. The kanima eases its long body over Stiles with protective curiosity as Stiles pants in labor and Liam’s screams for him to get away from Stiles are ignored.

The welcome bells on the front door fly off as the door swings inward fast. Derek, in all his beta werewolf glory, flies at the giant lizard hovering over his mate. On all fours the kanima whips around to meet the challenge. Claws meet claws and the crash of display cases fall victim to their fight. Stiles’ breath wheezes when he hears the solid thunk of a body hitting the floor and it’s not Jackson.

“Derek!”

The frosting smeared face of the kanima edges around the corner and then Jackson is back to his curious study of the pregnant male and corralling Lydia to the side.

“Oh no, oh no,” Stiles starts hyperventilating.

“Relax Stiles,” Lydia responds, but Stiles is already on the verge of blacking out from his pain and his growing panic attack. Naturally Lydia, does the only thing she knows how to do to break Stiles out of his fit.

She orders Jackson to kiss Stiles.

Quick as a snake, or well, kanima, the lizard’s long tongue pushes out between thin lips and forces its way past Stiles’ protesting ones like he has been waiting years for the opportunity. Stiles’ head slams back in the intensity of the kanima’s lips moving against him. He tries to push the reptile off, but before he can a mouthful of paralyzing venom ejects into his mouth cavity. Stiles gags and tries to spit, but Jackson’s long narrow tongue thrusts deep past his pharynx and into his esophagus. Stiles is disgusted to feel a second wave of thick venom splashing into him from the undulating organ. Already the toxin is fast at work and Stiles’ arms fall to the ground. Even so the kanima keeps him pinned by his slack wrists in a show of total domination.

Violated and numb, Stiles blinks slowly up at the scaly face hovering there. Jackson narrows his gold eyes smugly as his tongue explores Stiles’ mouth, uninhibited by his victim. If lizards could Instagram, Stiles is sure the bastard would be capturing the humorous expression frozen on Stiles’ face. It’s somewhere between a kiss and a frown, but his eyes are all terror.

“Enough.” The prompt command is given and Jackson backs off. Lydia instead is the one with opposable thumbs and is quickly typing a witty post along with her prize photo. She stashes her phone in her Prada bag and then flicks her soiled shoes to the side to stand barefoot by his head. Content with her vengeance, she crouches lower to meet Stiles’ frozen perspective.

“Whaaa-” Stiles tries to speak, but his speaking muscles won’t cooperate.

“I told you to relax, you miserable-” Her fury is quickly masked and she directs her attention to the loud grunting across the bakery. “For the love of… Jackson, drag him over here, so he can see we didn’t kill his fat ass mate.”

Jackson, still in kanima form, returns with a battered body. Stiles’ heart lightens with relief seeing Derek is indeed alive and furious given the red color of his mate’s face; definitely alive, given the cursing coming out of his mouth.

“Stiles, are you alright?” Derek leans over fighting the toxins, but his body is slow in its drugged reaction and he just rolls over onto his stomach instead of making any progress towards Stiles. Derek’s head slides through the magic womb fluid and he blinks in confusion. His nose draws in the stench of the wet substance. A tremor jolts his body when he understands its origin, “The pup?”

“Murgh-wa-da.” Stiles eyes are glazed, but he is still responsive or at least he thinks he is.

“What? What is wrong with him?” Derek screams at Lydia.

Liam growls, stuck by the counter near Stiles head, “Jackson injected him with his venom directly into his mouth to keep him from a panic attack. But now the pup is trouble, Stiles magic sack broke!”

Lydia’s irritated face at the loss of her new shoes dissolves as she gathers the facts from the werewolves’ desperate conversation. “Oh no.”

Guilt weighs heavy on her and she scrambles to find a pulse point on Stiles’ neck. She relaxes when she finds it strong and even, if a bit fast. Her mind scrambles past the fact that Stiles, a male is pregnant, and on towards possible methods of saving the infant, if he is indeed in birth.

The crunch of glass alerts the group that there are more visitors stepping into bakery. Before Lydia can tell him no, Jackson is springing up to defend. And the best defense is a good offense. Two more bodies join Stiles, Derek, and Liam on the bakery floor.

“The hell-” The Sheriff’s voice growls out from his side. He is mid reach to his firearm at his hip, before his body becomes flaccid and he loses control of his limbs. “Deaton, what is that thing? Where is Stiles?”

“That is a kanima and I am sure Ms. Martin will explain everything. But first she has the task of birthing the pup as I am now indisposed.” Deaton’s eyes are bulging to keep the kanima in his sight as it slinks back around the counter to where he protectively perches over his mate and the pregnant male it seems to have adopted into his nest.

Lydia’s eyes widen in fear. She looks around the destroyed shop and contemplates the momentous task now entirely in her hands. Her shoes were so not worth this.

 

\----------

 

Derek’s warm chest soothes his back as he rests against the werewolf on the office couch under a thick blanket. Tears stream down his face, but he can’t find it in himself to wipe them away. After all, he has both hands full with his beautiful boys and his joyful tears are a small offering for their safe birth.

Twins. Two small healthy pups nuzzle into his warm chest. Wrapped tight in their swaddling blankets, they scent him even fast asleep. Greeting a far larger world than their daddy’s magic womb-sack is a great deal of work, but it’s probably the warm milk in their tiny bellies that has them so tuckered.

Derek gently rubs his hands over Stiles’ cold arms, to get feeling the circulation back into his limbs after being paralyzed. Apparently the double dose of Jackson’s rape venom was a blessing, even if it is taking him hours longer to recover than anyone else caught up in the dramatic incident.

As soon as Stiles can feel his feet, he is kicking one between the reptile’s legs. A nut shot for the slimy bastard’s vulgar kiss and non-consensual deep throating. That was all Jackson and nothing of the creature he shifts into. Derek will probably help hold him down and add a few claw gouges of his own when they next meet.

Stiles tries to ignore his conscious reminding how kanima-Jackson unknowingly saved the day. His own damaged pride for a stolen kiss is nothing compared to his life and the lives of his boys. Jackson’s paralytic venom helped slow the birth process down. Enough that it prevented the pups’ transition into his birthing canal (Stiles colon). Without the control of his muscular system the pups could have been lodged in there for a dangerous amount of time as Stiles could not push them out. With their magical support lost, the pups would not have survived long and could have placed Stiles’ life at great risk. Male pregnancies are rare for a reason. A sparks control is crucial for the birth process. With no control, all of them were doomed.

A quick painless swipe from Jackson’s clean claw, under Lydia and Deaton’s careful guidance, made his birth much easier than the natural druidic birth Deaton had in store for him. Weeks of scheduled healing has instead whittled away into hours thanks to Jackson losing control of his kanima side.

Once back from his delivery, Isaac made precise work of stitching Stiles abdomen back together and finally everybody could breathe and celebrate the two screaming pups. Math genius or not, Lydia is hardly tested in practical skills. Stiles doubts she has ever thread a needle in her life. He would look like a pin cushion if Lydia had been left to the sutures. He was lucky Isaac is a dedicated worker and friend for his prompt reappearance at the bakery.

Stiles is thankful Lydia managed to drag Whitmore out the door (with their unpaid cookie order, though she did leave her ruined shoes, maybe he can salvage them to recover his loss) before the proud tyrant could claim honorary uncle. The way Jackson seemed reluctant to leave makes Stiles worried that he and his boys have unwittingly become a part of the kanima’s nest. Things were awkward enough when Jackson showed a sexual interest in him and Lydia seemed to encourage her boyfriend. Stiles is definitely not okay with their sudden interest in becoming more than high school frenemies. He pushes that thought aside for later and focuses back on his growing family.

“Derek, we did it,” Stiles mumbles quietly, so as to not wake the pups.

A kiss gently caresses the shell of his ear. Derek’s hot breath blows into his ear as he speaks, “We did.”

The crash of a body being tossed into the office door alerts the proud fathers that Erica and Boyd have finally returned from their tryst to a pack filled bakery in the midst of celebration/recovery. The co-alphas waste no time when it comes to discipline and a second slam shakes the wall. Why they are using this wall as a beta back board is beyond him at the moment. He just hopes his shop can take the damage and the ceiling doesn’t come down.

The pups start fussing at the racket, but quiet easily as Derek strokes the backs of their tiny heads with his fingers and Stiles tucks them under his chin, right next to each other.

“Keep it down, would you. I don’t need anyone showing up from my office for a disturbance! Would be hard to explain why I suddenly have two brand new grandsons!” Stiles is glad to hear his father’s voice is only slightly slurred from their celebration as he yells at the rowdy group.

Cheers from the assembled pack chorus congratulations through the bakery and then settle down as the gulp down whatever they are drinking. Stiles is sure that more than his liquor cabinet is being raided in the pack’s celebration. Werewolves devour food and the only edible things around here are sweets. There are probably several bust cakes and other erotic pastries being freed from their cases for the impromptu celebration. Hardly appropriate for his little men’s birth day, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care.

“Alright, alright,” Laura growls, dropping the second body from the wall to the ground. “But I am not finished with you Ms. Reyes.”

Erica’s groan is satisfying to Stiles and he rests his heavy eyes. Though, what Boyd says next has his eye’s wide open.

“Why does it smell like hunter in here?”

 

 

 

 

Congrats on twins!


End file.
